Message in a Bottle
by Anglobear
Summary: Against all odds, have hope. Even if your hope comes in the form of little bottles cast out to sea. Keep hoping, Dean. Keep hoping.  Dean/Castiel pre-slash


He's not dead, he's worse than dead. He's _gone._In Dean's experience, you can come back from the dead-hell, he's come back from it more times than he can count. He's seen Heaven so many times that they had to Windex his brain to keep him from remembering the grandiose cluster of night sky and memories that awaited him with each return, but none of that is important now. He's not the one that anyone needs to worry about.

It's Castiel.

The soggy trenchcoat washed up in the reeds and grass like some kind of symbolic baby Moses, except this trenchcoat wasn't going to go onto bigger and better things. Later on, that coat would be stored into a crafty crevice inside the Impala's false bottom and that will be the last they see of the holy tax accountant's tan armour for a long time. For now, it is sopping wet and Dean has no inclination to wring it out or pass it off to someone else so they can carry his burden. That's all the coat is to him at this point in the game: a reminder and a burden.

"Dean, come on," Sam coaxed. Since Castiel-or rather, the monster inhabiting Castiel-couldn't walk on water, his body expelled all kinds of nasty critters, namely Leviathans, and it was up to the Winchesters to round the Big Bads up and shuttle their black gunky asses back to Purgatory. It's not a job they looked forward to- Dean hasn't anticipated a job since the time Sam told him that there might be a vengeful spirit haunting women in public showers, and that turned out to be a bust- but it was a job nonetheless. With a vague idea of what was in the cards for them, what foes they might have to fell, they took off.

Nothing was left for them there.

And then five months sailed by, time passing like it meant next to nothing. Dean would comment on how one month felt like one day, and the ratio didn't really add up, not with their job. One day should feel like a whole month, not the other way around. Must be age catching up with him. Sam just teased him mercilessly, happy to have the bond between them restored to its former glory, a status they hadn't been able to enjoy since long before everything went to Hell in a hand basket. Almost literally, even.

Demons were scarce, angels had pretty much fluttered back to their precious pearly white kingdom, it was time to get back to basics. Within the span of the first five months, things had blossomed back into normality, or as normal as a day in the Winchester's lives could be. Diner food, swindling drunks out of their cash via pool games at local dives, killing monsters that were definitely not Leviathans (they hadn't quite caught their scent just yet). "Easy peasy," Dean mumbled around a bite of his western bacon burger as they sat in a diner and mulled things over. The usual.

Sam refrained from chiding Dean about talking with his mouth full of food (one had to wonder which of them was the older sibling here) and skipped his eyes back over to the paper he was reading. Pretending to read. Sam had already gleaned the information from it that he wanted, and was now using it as a front to hide the fact that he couldn't stop watching his older brother. Slumped posture, yet tense shoulders; the bags under his eyes were more prominent than ever; Dean's lips were in an ever-constant state of what Sam had dubbed the perma-frown. _Don't you ever smile?_

He'd keep that thought to himself, though. All his observations were safely tucked away in that hulking brain of his, some place that no nosy older brother could sniff out. The bare bones deal was that Sam was worried. Their new lease on life wasn't fooling Dean apparently, but he didn't have to be such a stick in the mud in terms of demeanor. That was Sam's job as far as they were concerned, and now the older Winchester had lost the glint in his eye that always meant he was ready. Alert. Primed for the gankin'. Not like Sam could ask him what the deal was, since sharing and caring was such a one-way street. It was time to go on the offense, though.

Dean couldn't wallow in his self-pity and misery for the rest of however long he had to live this time around.

"The coat isn't in its spot," Sam noted, eyes hardly straying from the paper. He'd probably read the classifieds fifty times by this point.

"Hnnmph?"

"The trenchcoat."

"Oh, yeah, I know. Moved it somewhere else in the car since the damn thing keeps getting holy water spilled on it every so often." Dean cleared his throat and did a cursory tongue swipe over his teeth after setting his burger back down on his plate. "Why d'you even know about that?"

"You fondle it all the time, figured I'd make sure there weren't any weird stains on it for when you give it back. I have no clue what you do with that thing," Sam teased. Dean grunted, signifying the end of the conversation, or at least the topic, and made to grab his burger again. Sam's mouth went slightly ajar, as he still had something to say and the words had yet to come to him, and the burger hung in the air, lukewarm beneath Dean's fingers. "I think you should try contacting him," Sam finally muttered after a beat. All the breath was expelled from Dean's lungs, the burger hastily discarded to the surface of the plate with an unsatisfying 'fwap'.

Even though five months had gone by, Dean was far from over it.

On the way out to the Impala, Sam could hardly keep up with the disgruntled strides of his brother. "Dean, seriously, you're acting like you're five. Just hear me out," he pleaded.

Dean swiveled around as he reached the boot of the car and fixed Sam with a glare, though it looked more like some kind of Clint Eastwood squint, what with the positioning of the sun in his eyes. Didn't matter, Dean was definitely glaring and it was all for Sam, whether it looked as menacing as he intended or not.

"I have 'heard you out' countless times, Sammy. Ever think that maybe you should hear _me_out? I thought it was pretty clear that when Cas left, that was the end of it." Dean didn't even wait for a response before yanking the driver's side door open and getting in. "No angels," he continued, "Nada. Zip. Zilch. He's gone and God isn't bringing him back this time."

Sam settled into his shotgun seat and prayed to someone, anyone, that this didn't turn into one of Dean's Days of Silence. He was prone to those now, that was something new, and those days were often-times filled with a whole hell of a lot of alcohol. Sam could feel one of Dean's famous rants coming on, too, but he welcomed those. He'd keep his lips sealed for this one.

"I don't like being without our little Deus Ex Machina, or whatever you've called him, but he's gone. He fucked up this time, went out for a swim, and he's not coming back. Maybe you like praying and getting no answer, but I sure as hell don't, and I'm not gonna waste my breath or my thoughts dialing 1-800-ANGEL only to get no reply. I'm sick of trying, because I already did. I really did."

Perhaps Dean got drunk a few times and called for a "featherbrained ass who never shows". There may have been a few times when Dean snuck off to call Castiel's number, only to get the answering machine, and smiling when he was granted a reprieve from the ache of not hearing the angel's voice. It was short, the message, but it was something. Messages were left, messages Dean was sure would never reach anyone's ears, but it was the day that the phone was no longer in service that Dean gave up. Nothing really felt cemented until that point in time, and the crackling hollow voice of the pre-recorded message that told him basically that Castiel would never answer his prayers again, was what did it.

Like the worn-out creaking of joints, like the phosphene that blew up like fireworks behind his eyelids at night before sleep, everything was fading, slipping from Dean's fingers. Seemed as sure as snow in the mountains and lightning fires that everyone would leave him at some point or another. Dean's life was like a timeline, marked and scarred by the losses that were nothing but frequent. Some days he would lose an innocent bystander on a job, because he couldn't save everyone, or he would lose a piece of Sam to constant bickering or lack of care. It was tough to get Dean to care about much these days, and he was jaded to losing.

He's lost so much, he's probably lost a part of himself.

That night, in the motel room, the Winchesters held an inaudible conversation with each other, their sighs punctuating all the words that never left their lips. Sam stationed himself on the couch in the poor excuse for a 'living room', fingers furiously clattering away on the keyboard, and Dean had holed himself up on one of the beds, flipping through countless channels of television fuzz. They would look at one another, features illuminated only by the waning lights of their respective electronics, and they would garner all the information they needed to know with startling accuracy. A slight nod told Dean that Sam was about to get up and head out for a bit. A head tilt asked him if he wanted anything.

Dean wanted a lot of things, but nothing money could buy.

The minute the front door had been shut tight and the telltale rumble of the Impala's engine grew quieter until the sound was miles out of earshot, Dean padded out from beneath his nest of blankets and made for the laptop. His knees banged around a few hard surfaces for good measure until he had gotten to the damn thing, and it felt like victory just holding it in his hands. Tucked under his arm until he'd made it back to the bed, Dean opened it up and already had a few choice ideas as to where he'd like to spend his free time—that is, until he noticed what Sam had already been viewing prior to leaving.

Messages in a bottle? Wasn't that some shitty song by The Police? Not the point, and it looked as though Sam was looking for ways to send some stupid little letter, no doubt full of hope and pleading, out into a body of water. What did he think they were going to do, keep driving back to the lake where the dude sank and use the angel as an excuse to 'recycle' bottles? They might as well go fishing for him while they were at it, maybe they'd catch his tie or something. There was a word document open in another window and, as private as it was, Dean couldn't help but skim over the general gist of the note that Sam had clearly written for Castiel.

It contained a whole lot of "we miss you"s, sappy prayers and wishes for his safe return to their ragtag Team Free Will, just enough to irk Dean into keeping the laptop and confronting Sam the minute he walked into the door with his arms full of bags. His stare was more than accusing enough as Sam dropped the bags onto a table, enough for his brother to get the hint. "Did you read the note, too?" Sam frowned.

"Don't ask stupid questions." As much as he wanted to berate his little brother for having a rather harebrained idea, one that could never work, the fight had left Dean. When he spoke he sounded resigned and sleepy, his eyelids threatening to shut on him and end the war before it had a chance to start, which was fine by him. "No messages, Sam. Let it go."

"How can I let it go if you're the one moping about him all the time? You don't even try to defend yourself anymore, what happened to you?" Sam asked, arms flopping down to his sides in a gesture of equal submission. Even if his brother hadn't been happy in a long while, he hadn't been downright depressed either. There wasn't really time to be depressed or weigh your losses against your gains, except now they had nothing but time, too much of it. Sam wanted his brother to write messages to Cas so desperately, as some kind of coping skill, thought it would be the only thing to save him at this point. "No one has to read your letters. You won't talk to me, just thought this would help. I'm sorry for trying with you."

"That's the _point _of letters, they're supposed to be read. Is this some kind of psych mumbo-jumbo you're pulling on me? I'm not gonna go Cuckoo's Nest on you, since obviously you think I'm goin' crazy from all this 'bottling up'," Dean growled. "I'm tired, alright? Sleepy, too."

Sam stepped back to his purchases and pulled out a pad of paper, a bottle, and a pencil, setting them down on the table with finality. The pencil clinked against the glass bottle until Sam wielded it and pointed it at Dean. "Just try. For me."

In the morning, the bottle, the paper, and the pencil were gone.

_ Dear Castiel,_

_ To Cas,_

_ Hey._

_ It's been a while and I'm not sure what I'm supposed to put down. I'm not going to lie, Sammy put me up to this and you know how he gets, when he pulls that face that you can't deny. Has he ever used it on you? I think he uses it on everyone. What am I even saying?_

_ Weather's nice. Sam misses you. I would too, but it doesn't feel like you're gone, you know? Just in Heaven, can't hear us 'cause you're busy being bossed around by some dick like Zachariah. But he's gone, so some new guy probably stepped in and knowing you angels, there's some asshat who is just as snarky and prick-ish waiting in the wings (no pun intended) to usurp him. You guys have a caste system, don't you? Thought all societies did._

_ I'm beating around the bush. You'll never get this letter, so why should I tell you anything? What is there that you don't already know? You looked into my soul enough times. Look again. I guess I'll be waiting, but don't make me wait too long. Sam might start calling me an army wife and I don't want to hit him any more than I already have to. See ya, buddy._

It's less ceremonial, dropping off the bottle into the water, than Dean would have liked it to be. Just another day, sun swimming in a sea of burning blue and plush clouds, and a cool breeze disrupting Dean's puffs of wispy hair. Location was unimportant, the only thing that mattered was a big enough body of water to satisfy the Winchester's sensibilities, and there he stood with his boots planted firmly in the ground at the edge of the sand. The clear bottle was smudged with greasy fingerprints, and the cork top was coming apart around the edges, obvious signs of wear and tear, nervous love.

_ You won't get this, _Dean thought to himself as he held the bottle inches before his mouth, breath fogging up the glass. He wound up his arm, confident in his abilities to chuck a bottle as well as he could toss a pigskin, then opted to lob it softly into the awaiting lake. Wasn't the right lake, wasn't anywhere _near_ the right lake, but it was a lake, which was good enough for Dean. There was a poignant little splash when the bottle came in contact with the water, the ripples reaching out to lap at Dean's sand-caked boots.

One of the first times he ever met the guy, they were at a park. The memory resurfaced as Dean made to head back to the car, where Sam was waiting, thus stopping him in his tracks. Nervously he snaked a hand into his jacket pocket and slid a cautious thumb over his lighter, giving himself a moment to indulge in the memory. He'd told Dean something he'd never told anyone, told him he wasn't a hammer. Castiel had probably told him countless things no one else knew, and Dean wished he'd listened more often.

He'd never relent and say that he was wrong, but it wasn't too far-fetched that Castiel could've been kind of right. Some kind of miscommunication happened between the two and then it became _You're just a man. I'm an angel. _By the time Dean made it back to the Impala, he was convinced that he wasn't just a man, and Cas was hardly an angel. They were just Dean and Castiel. What did that make everyone around them?

He never liked labels.

_ Cas,_

_ I never saw you as anything but what you were. Not an angel, you weren't always self-righteous or smite-y enough for me to call you an angel. But mom said angels were watching over us, and she probably meant you. I don't know anymore, Cas, I don't know what to call you. You were this guy who made floodlights blow up and didn't take anyone's shit except my own._

_ That was probably your biggest mistake. _

_ I'm angry, and I have every right to be. Did you think you could keep so many souls in you? No, you don't want an angry letter. No one ever opened up their mailbox and got excited for hate mail, I don't think you would either. Did you get the last one? I'm sending this out on the coast of Florida, so if you're not in that tiny lake back West, you're probably here. Do angels feel warmth?_

Being in Florida offered no respite, and it was only after corralling a couple of wayward ghosts and salting and burning their bones that Dean had the opportunity to chuck his latest bottle. Sam was pleasantly surprised that Dean had gone through with it the first time, doubly so when the second bottle was put to use. He'd only bought three bottles but they could easily obtain more; whatever made his brother happy was worth every penny.

"Is this helping you any?" Sam asked as Dean came back from his trek out to the further point on the beach. Shaking the sand out of the folds in the bottom of his jeans, Dean shrugged and grunted in lieu of a more verbose answer. "I see."

"What do you want from me? I'm using your bottles, quit bitching," Dean grumbled, and Sam's eyeroll was nearly audible from all the way over on the other side of the car.

Winter came, then spring. More bottles were flung out to their new homes, each containing a note whose message of hope only grew stronger by the day. A few posed questions to the absent angel: _Did you ever try pie? What's flying like anyways? Did you ever touch down on Earth when we didn't call for you?_ Things Dean would make sure to get the answer to when Castiel returned.

The roles reversed between Sam and Dean, the amounts of prayer and belief in a missing person shifting drastically. It wasn't long before Sam grew concerned with how Dean beamed every time he finished penning a letter to Cas. "It's not the next great American novel, but he'll like it. The weirdo probably gets a kick out of these." Dean huffed an involuntary snort of fondness at the thought, and twisted his paper up to put in the next bottle.

"Dean, do you really think he's getting these?" It hurt Sam to ask, but he had to know his brother's stance on this whole fiasco. Look at what your actions have cultivated, reap what you've sown.

"Well yeah, why wouldn't I think that?"

"Just saying, if he could get to all these bodies of water, don't you think he could make it back here to us and end the wait? It's been months, Dean."

Crestfallen, Dean put up a front. His knuckles whitened around the glass, but he did not budge. Opening his heart was a disaster of epic proportions, listing his every thought in a messy scrawl was a terrible idea. It made him vulnerable to an extent he never thought possible, and it was all because Sam left out those stupid bottles and made him write these stupid letters. Of _course_ no one was ever going to read these, it was just more cost-effective than going to see a shrink and sorting these problems out in a healthy manner. _Sam's fault, Sam's fault_, it was racing in his head and morphing into an ugly chant of_ Castiel's fault, Castiel's fault._

No one's fault but his own.

The letters became skeletons, devoid of heart and soul, of muscle and meaning.

_ Nothing new with me. Nothing new with you._

The letters stopped.

Numerous run-ins with the leviathans had happened, but aside from that, it was a lackluster year. Yes, Dean had been counting, as had Sam. Nothing remotely exciting happened on the day marking a year since Castiel had trundled into the lake, no one expected much. The smouldering remains of whatever was left in Dean's ashen heart were put out that night, and the feeling (or lack thereof) lasted well into the following week. Sam couldn't help but think he was watching someone get over a really bad break up, minus the part where Dean was getting over anything. Dean didn't do that much. So much guilt and longing for what once was had stained his soul.

It wasn't for another month until something happened. At first it was the little things. One blustery early summer's morning brought the sound of wings rustling, feathers rubbed up against one another. Sure, a guy could attribute it to the winds picking up and thrashing the trees around, but they knew better. They knew better than to say anything, too. _Gotta keep smothering the hope._

Then came the flickering lights, an all around atmosphere of tense static in the air. It tempted them into packing up early and driving off at an odd hour of the night for want of a safer place to stay, even though it couldn't be ghosts, even though they had salt and weapons galore. _Keep smothering the hope._

There was a knock on the door at the motel they relocated to. Sam was fast asleep on one of the two beds, paranoia had conked the poor sasquatch out and left Dean curled up in the dark on his respective bed, on top of the sheets. His first thought was demons and it had him grabbing Ruby's knife instead of his gun, but the strange wetness coming in from beneath the door told him that his weapons wouldn't be enough for the strange person or creature behind it.

The door opened and again the knife had plunged into an angel's chest. "We seem to meet like this often." There was the familiar gravelly voice, deep in ways that Dean hadn't heard before, with an out of practice tone.

_ Hope._

Every inch of Castiel was saturated with water, and the knife squelched when tugged out of his chest. Back for less than a minute and he was already fixing Dean with a probing stare, as if he were reading his mind or scanning his soul or something utterly alien and foreign and _God_, Dean was _so glad _he was back. "Cas," he mumbled, the name sounding frail and weak, newborn and bare.

"You stopped writing. Why did you stop writing?" Castiel inquired, procuring a heap of deteriorating papers with illegible letter. All the things that Dean ever wrote were in his hands, original meaning far from salvagable, words safe inside his mind but left in inky smatterings on the paper. When he closed a fist around the clump of notes, they gave way and collapsed, water dribbling on the carpet.

"Huh?"

"I looked for your bottles everywhere, but you stopped writing. I feared something had happened to you, though it looks like you are fine." Castiel seemed unfazed while he spoke as a lock of hair drooped down and smacked him in his eye. "Are you and your brother... well?"

"Yeah, Cas, we're doing good," Dean replied. It was stilted conversation, but Dean was at a loss for words. Figuring Sam deserved the sleep, he edged around Castiel and closed the door behind himself, observing the angel as the angel observed right back. "You're missing your shoes."

"They were waterlogged. I thought it would be best if I left them behind." In the absence of chatter, a bird flew by, the two of them dividing their attention to watch it. Always with the awkward tension. Dean could never figure out what made it bloom the way it did, how tension just thrived and overcame them, but he was okay with it for once. Didn't feel so uncomfortable when his friend was a foot or two away for once. "To answer your question, I do feel warmth."

"Oh, good to know."

"But all I feel right now is cold."

Red flags popped up in Dean's mind. "Shit, Cas, we have got to get you out of those clothes. You probably can't get sick or anything, but you look like a drowned rat." Appearances, appearances.

Another room was rented for the sake of blow-drying Castiel's hair without waking up Sam in an effort to be courteous (more on Castiel's behalf than Dean's), and then Castiel was sitting at the foot of a bed wearing ill-fitting jeans and a shirt that was loose in all the wrong places. "Still cold?" Dean had to wonder. It looked as though the angel was naked while he looked up through his eyelashes, the clothes too thin and obtrusive to make Dean think otherwise. Castiel shook his head, but Dean thought otherwise.

It was a reunion like no other, the return of the trenchcoat to its rightful owner. With no cheap suit underneath it and instead some faded nondescript deep blue tee, it looked clunky and needless. No one else could wear a coat like Cas could and make it appear so unnecessary. _That's why I like you, _Dean thought. _You make everything seem so out of place. _

"You're tired, Dean." Castiel had continued to sound small, yet deep, still as if he had never spoken before in his life. Mere observations from his lips were like the words of gospel and only then did Dean feel truly tired. The good kind of tired. Rip Van Winkle tired.

"Always tired, you know that," Dean said, voice slurred with sleepiness. He came down to rest on Castiel's bed, knowing that the angel never slept, figured he could claim it for his own. "You lay down too."

Blue eyes darted between the two beds. "Here?"

"Not gonna offer twice. Just lay down and close your eyes. Humour me."

There was a canyon of space between them when they laid prostrate on top of the blankets, a perfect line that separated more than just bodies. In and out of consciousness Dean drifted, hardly noticing when Castiel turned his head to watch Dean, or maybe count his freckles, he had no clue. His inhibitions were as down as they would be if he was as drunk as a skunk, but the only thing he managed was to whisper a little bit. The whispers grew louder, until Castiel could discern what they were saying, and he flashed a rare smile in the midst of their repose.

"I missed you."

"I wish you had written more letters."

"You're supposed to say 'I missed you, too', but okay."

A tan coated arm rose up and two fingers grazed Dean's unlined forehead, no angelic grace forcing him anywhere or to do anything. "Sleep well, Dean."

"You gonna be there when I wake up?" Dean yawned, eyes barely trained on the hand shadowing his face.

"I will be here for as long as you'd like," Castiel offered back. His thumb strayed from its position and stroked Dean's brow hesitantly, but the younger man did not seem perturbed by his actions, and he carried on. Before Dean could come up with a witty rejoinder or anything at all, he slipped under the guise of sleep, warm breath washing over Castiel's fingers. The angel retracted his hand and let it fall onto Dean's shoulder, the one that had been marked, and he laid on his side while slotting his fingers into where he believed his print had scarred. While he waited, he would recount Dean's letters in his head, recall Dean's questions and tales of what he was missing, but most of all, the love in every pencil stroke.

"I missed you too."

_A year has passed since I wrote my note_

_But I should have known this right from the start_

_Only hope can keep me together_

_Love can mend your life_

_But love can break your heart_


End file.
